


Europop Sex Show Yeah

by autoschediastic



Series: Jetset Sexlife [1]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:14:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/156925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoschediastic/pseuds/autoschediastic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That would've been fucking awesome on YouTube. Adam Lambert shoots one off in stall number three.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Europop Sex Show Yeah

"Chocolate body paint," Adam says over the low hum of background music spilling from the phone.

Tommy squints at his nails. Very, very carefully--it's usually Sutan who does this for him--he drags the brush from cuticle to nail tip. The polish stays shiny black for less than a second before it goes flat matte. He dips the brush back into the bottle sitting next to his phone. "You're so fucking vanilla."

"It's _chocolate_."

Right hand finished, Tommy picks up his beer for a rewarding swig, fingers splayed so he doesn't smudge. It's Tuesday night. He's got the house to himself, a twelve-pack cooling in the fridge, and nothing to do, nowhere to go. After the hectic whirlwind year he's had, it's good. Amazing. "Just melt some chocolate," he says, blowing on his nails. "It's cheaper."

Voice flat, Adam says, "This is seven euros."

"Too cheap. Buy thirty bucks worth of that Swiss shit and then we'll talk."

Adam's laugh flows across the line, warm and thick. "I didn't realise you were so high maintenance."

"Dude, you have no idea." Tommy flicks a glance at the television. Nowhere near the good part yet, so he goes back to smoothing polish over his nails. "Are there cages?"

A slight pause. "Probably?"

"Every sex show needs a good cage."

There's a low murmur of voices. The music changes to something with an Eastern flair, sharp and sultry. "What the hell would you even do with a cage, Tommy Joe?"

"Put Isaac in it." Tommy grins at the phone and Adam's bright burst of laughter. "Hey, it's better than tupperware."

"Tupperware keeps him fresher," Adam says. Something on the other end of the line clinks. Metal, maybe. Handcuffs, or a leash. No way in hell Adam would come home with a leash, but handcuffs, yeah. Adam would do handcuffs.

"Buy me a leash," Tommy says.

"Dragging you out on the end of one is the only way I'm ever going to get you out of your apartment again, isn't it?"

"Maybe," Tommy hedges. Sad to admit it or not, this is one of the best nights he's had in awhile. It'd be better if Adam were here with him instead of halfway across the world, but he'll take what he can get. Adam'll be back in LA by this time tomorrow.

"If I buy you a leash," Adam says, in his for-your-own-good tone of voice, "I'll have to buy you a collar, and if I buy you a collar, you'll only get ideas."

"Yeah, fucking awesome ones." Nails done, Tommy slumps back into the couch cushions. The movie changed tracks when he wasn't looking. Still not to his favourite scene yet, but this one's not bad. He scoops up his beer, gulps a quick mouthful. He skims his other hand down his thigh, back up again, leaving it resting close enough to his junk to feel the heat of it. Fifteen minutes before his nails are dry enough to not worry about ruining them. He could've planned this better, but, a lot like the urge to redo his nails, the one to pop in a skinflick had been pretty random.

"A collar and a cage," Adam says, and Tommy can imagine how he's smiling as he does, shaking his head. "Suddenly I get the feeling I'm going entirely the wrong route with beer and a blowjob."

"Fuckin' A, you bought me that beer, the one with the crazy wire pop top?" The beer itself is a little too much on the malty side to be Tommy's favourite, but he seriously fucking loves popping one open. Usually after the first two he doesn't notice the taste, anyway. Like he's some fucking beer connoisseur or something, right.

Adam's reply is delayed a few seconds; Tommy can hear him talking to somebody else, his words almost lost in their delighted laugh. "It worries me that you latched onto the beer right away."

"I get blowjobs any time I want them. Fancy European beer comes but like, twice a year."

"It might be the only thing coming if you keep that up."

"Right," Tommy drawls, laughing over Adam's indignant, "Hey!" He laughs harder. "Like hell you're gonna ransom cocksucking. You love it way too much."

"Yours is not the only dick in the world to suck, Mr. Ratliff," Adam mutters.

Tommy wiggles down deeper into the cushions, still careful to keep his fingers splayed out over his thighs. "It's the one you like best. Man, I don't blame you. My cock is awesome."

Adam hums, unimpressed.

"C'mon, you know it. You nearly fucking creamed yourself the first time you got your hands on it. Admit it."

"I fully advocate a sex-positive lifestyle and make it a point to almost cream myself over every pretty little cock I see."

"Oh come the fuck _on_. Give it up, rockstar." Absently, Tommy flicks a glance at the television. Shit. He'd totally missed when it flipped over to the jail scene. The set's crap and the uniforms are campy, but the chick is so totally fucking smoking, and the guy's not half bad either. He's too mainstream for Tommy to really get excited about, gym-perfect body and a stereotypical tribal tattoo obviously painted on across his shoulder. Hell if he isn't into those long, slim fingers she's got shoved up his ass, though. Really, really into it, this look on his face like Tommy's seen on his own sometimes when Adam fucks him somewhere near a mirror.

"Tommy?"

"Yeah, sorry," Tommy says, pressing his fingertips harder into his thigh to keep from squeezing his dick. "What?"

A weight like Adam's frown seeps across the line. Tommy grabs up the remote, turning the volume down so low he can barely hear it over the noise filtering in from Adam's end. "Tommy Joe," Adam says, deliberately measured, and Tommy winces, "are you watching porn?"

"You're at a fucking sex show," Tommy blurts. "There's probably some chick grinding up against a pole right in front of you!"

"Probably," Adam agrees, unfazed. "Which one did you put on?"

Heat creeps up the back of Tommy's neck. He doesn't even know what the big deal is. Most of his collection is lesbian porn Adam isn't really interested in but watches anyway when Tommy's in the mood, this look on his face the whole time every time like he's trying to figure out what the fuck is really up with all the long nails (Tommy would kinda like to know too, honestly) and the rest of it is stuff that Adam's either helped him pick out or straight up given to him.

"I know you're not jacking off yet," Adam says, and Tommy squirms, turned on and this weird, inexplicable guilty feeling in his gut, like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't. "It's the strap-on one, isn't it."

"She's hot," Tommy mumbles. "And she like, just really fucking gives it to him."

Adam makes a low, considering noise. The music on his side switches over to a heavy club beat. "That's it, huh? That's the only thing there really doing it for you."

"It's _hot_ ," Tommy says, curling his hand into a fist to keep it off his cock, then remembering at the last second his nails are still tacky. "And yeah, okay, the other thing's hot too."

"Something tells me I wouldn't be going out on a limb if I said you had a thing for watching holes get stuffed, baby."

"Shit," Tommy says, squeezing his eyes shut. It doesn't help. He's got the whole fucking scene memorised. In a minute, the sounds are gonna come out, and the guy's gonna get this look on his face like he's not sure he wants it even though he kinda does, and she's gonna give it to him anyway. And the guy was really into the fingering, then _really_ into getting dicked. There are no fucking words for how into the sounding he gets. Like it's pure fucking bliss, okay. His own personal rapture, and there isn't a universe in existence where that isn't the hottest fucking thing, period. Tommy's balls ache just fucking thinking about it.

"Now you sound like you've got a hand on your dick," Adam says, hushed, heavy.

"Nope," Tommy says, more a grunt than an actual word. "Gonna in a minute."

"Not going to wait?"

Another quick glance at the screen shows the guy on his knees on the floor, hands stretched out towards the rickety bars and the girl stretched out on top of him, her tits pressed to his back, her hips moving in slow, grinding circles. Tommy presses the heel of his hand hard to his cock, rocks up into it. His fucking toes curl.

Adam says, "Fuck, you sound so hot. I don't even fucking know what you just did, but do it again, baby. I wanna hear you."

"You're at a fucking _sex show_ ," Tommy says, but he's fumbling at his jeans, plucking awkwardly at the button and zip, shoving his shorts down with them. He gets one spit-slick hand tight around his dick, cups his balls in the other, lets the moan caught in the back of his throat spill free.

"It's all toys and costumes," Adam says, and the background changes; the music is muffled, distant. Other voices echo off the walls. "Nothing even close to you spread out on your couch jerking off for me."

Tommy licks his bottom lip, catches it between his teeth to scrape dry. "Did you just like, are you in the fucking bathroom?"

Another one of those pauses, then, "Shit. I should've. Outside hailing a cab. Couldn't hear you in there."

"Yeah," Tommy says with a laugh, his voice shaking as he thumbs his slit, "that would've been fucking awesome on YouTube. Adam Lambert shoots one off in stall number three."

"Fuck off." A car door slams. "This is your fault anyway," Adam says, then, "Berlaymont, thank you," to the driver, and back to Tommy, "Gonna wait for me to get back to the hotel?"

"Don't think so," Tommy says. Not because he's a jackass, either. On the porno, the sounds are out, gleaming stainless steel innocent and dangerous all at once in the girl's small hands. If Adam were here, Tommy would be done already. He hasn't ever lasted through watching her slide that little bit of metal into the guy's slit. His thighs tense in anticipation. "You really wanna hear it?"

Adam hisses, "Yes," startling Tommy. He honestly didn't think it was getting to Adam so bad. He's kinda caught up in his own thing over here, sure, but usually he can tell when Adam's gone from interested to fuck-his-brains-out turned on.

Leaning forward, Tommy fumbles the phone up off the table, dumping it onto the couch beside him. Face hot, he spits into his hand again, makes it good and wet, makes sure the slick noise of his palm on his dick echoes clear over the line. "Yeah?" he asks, clearing some of the scratch out of his voice.

"Yeah," Adam says, rough around the edges, "I can't," and he breaks off with a frustrated sound.

Can't talk dirty like he wants to--like he _always_ wants to when they fuck--with the cabbie listening in. Or he could, but that's not Adam's style. It's not that Adam's ashamed of it or anything, but there's a difference between being comfy with your filthy mouth and shoving it in the face of the poor dude driving you home.

Tommy hesitates, then says, "Wanna tell me what to do, don't you," because what the hell, why not. Most times he can barely get a word in edgewise, 'cause Adam never fucking shuts up. But it's not like he's never trash-talked for somebody before. "Wanna tell me to play with my balls a little, huh, 'cause you know I like it. Or maybe you wanna tell me to play with my slit instead, that it? Like the guy's getting his played with, 'cause I like that shit, too. Like it better when you do it."

"Fuck," Adam groans under his breath.

"Bad idea, wanting me to fuck around when you can't join in," Tommy says, pretty much just running his mouth now, going with it, skidding down lower in the couch to let his knees spread wide. He braces his free hand on the seat, arching up to fuck his fist, wondering if Adam can hear the scrape of his jeans on the upholstery. It's a really fucking good thing he's got the house to himself. Sometimes he gets noisy, whatever, but there's nothing stopping the shit coming out of his mouth this time around. Sharp, panting breaths, air sucked in through his teeth and leaking out in a groan, the loud slap of skin when he drops back down to really jack it; he lets it all out, sharing with Adam his own private soundtrack for the fucking on-screen.

Adam says, "Tommy," quick, frantic, and for a split-second Tommy thinks maybe Adam shoved a hand down his pants in the back of the cab anyway. But it's the sound of boots clacking across a lobby floor he hears, the quiet ding of an elevator.

"Grab your dick in there, somebody's gonna see," Tommy says, so fucking close to the edge, and shocked most of that came out as more than a couple random noises.

"You and your fucking mouth," Adam says, followed by a muffled thump, like his back hitting the wall. "Fuck, you're about to come, aren't you?"

"So gonna," Tommy says, and this time it is less than words, long and drawn out, syllables caught in the clench of his teeth. He's gonna lose it, and Adam's gonna hear him, hear everything, and it's not like that's any different from when Adam's in the same fucking room as him, when it's Adam _making_ him come, but it feels different. Fucking filthy-dirty-incredible with the porno playing in the background, the kitschy elevator music tinny through the phone, Adam's breathing hushed and strained.

He tries to say something else, as if he fucking needs to clue Adam in that this is it, and all he manages is a choked-off whine caught low in the back of his throat. He barely gets a hand cupped over the head of his dick in time to catch it when he shoots, his chest gone tight, aching, tension humming hot and perfect all the way down to his belly, coiling up even tighter for a split-second before snapping. Whatever breath's left in his lungs bursts free on a ragged noise almost loud enough to drown out Adam's harsh curse.

The first thing that registers when Tommy's hearing comes back is the sound of a door slamming and Adam thudding back against it. Gulping air, head tipped back and come cooling in the palm of his hand, Tommy asks, "You gonna?"

"Fuck," is Adam's response, "Tommy, fuck, you've got no fucking idea," all broken-up, razor-edged. "The way you _sound_ , fuck."

If the show Adam got was anything like what Tommy's getting now, hell yeah he's got a fucking idea. There are snatches of things, hints like shoes scuffing on carpet, an elbow bumping the door, the jangle of a belt or chains or rings clinking together as Adam fists his dick, jacks it fast and furious the way he gets after he's been waiting too damn long. Tommy sucks in a quiet breath and holds it, and holds it, straining for every single catch in Adam's voice, every scrap of a bitten-off moan.

And he knows, he fucking knows the exact moment Adam goes off. Feels it in his gut like he's right there with him, in his fucking _bones_. He cups his hand closer to his cock, relishing the light buzz of pleasure, satisfied and lazy and this stupid smile breaking out across his face when Adam breathes his name.

Scrubbing hair out of his face with his shoulder, Tommy says, "That was pretty fucking awesome."

Adam groans, long and low, and there's the soft scrape of clothes on wood, like he's skidding down the door, landing at the bottom of it with a thud. "I forgot to buy you something."

"Fuck it." Tommy skins off his shirt, using it to wipe off his hand before flopping sideways on the couch. "Dirty talk me hard again and I'll finger myself for you."

Adam's shock-happy laugh warms Tommy all the way down to the tingle left lingering in his toes.


End file.
